Music and Tastes

I’m “stuck” in the Eighties in the sense that the music was so entwined with personal growth and self discovery.  I’m not apologizing for my musical tastes – I’m putting it on the table.  My friends have been the second biggest musical influence in my life, allowing me to break out of the sounds I find comfortable and comforting, and enjoy sounds and artists I wouldn’t normally care to discover:  Maroon 5, Kelly Clarkson, and Green Day, to name a few.  Since the days of the internets, it’s been easier and easier to share music via MP3’s and other file formats and I’d like to say that I jump on the email when I get an attachment in my inbox, but I will admit here that I sometimes sit and look at the file and don’t open it for days.

Days.

Sometimes more days.

Because I’m afraid that if I listen and like it that I will have a new purchase in my future, and I’m STILL organizing the hundreds of cds that line one wall in my office.  I’ve been known to get online and download albums with a few simple clicks and blow through a budget before I can blink, so I resist.  I resist.  In the end, if the music (and pardon the phrase) strikes the right chords with me – I’m sold.  I’m a goner.

But there’s been a semblance of a truce to my compulsive disorder.  Rhapsody (subscription based) and Pandora (say this in a high C:  FREE!).  The difference between the two is that through Rhapsody, you can listen to any song in their database service, add favorites, fast forward, repeat, and direct buy.

Pandora is a free service (that has recently introduced annoying 10-12 second sound byte (and visual) ads) where you can create your own “music stations” and even share those with friends.  You can play or pause, but you cannot rewind nor fast forward.  You can create “stations” of various likes, but you cannot dictate which song you hear.  Some of the magic of the sight is the random, and I’ve discovered some great artists simply by letting certain stations pick songs or artists for me based on little feedback from me.  Through Pandora, I “found”:  Toyah, The The, Beck, and Katy Perry.  I seriously would never have broken out of my own shell if I hadn’t been introduced to the sound of the aforementioned artists if I hadn’t streamed music randomly and been impressed enough to say “who was THAT I just heard?”

Care to share any of your musical discoveries or recommendations in the comments section?

Talk Thursday: How Does Your Garden Grow

(As seen through the skewed lens of an English nursery rhyme.)

Horny, horny, hormones quite thorny,
How does your libido grow?
With blood lust, and taught skin
and wanting you more than you know.

(Chances of being chanted by future generations are nil.)

So what’s YOUR version?

Oh Yeah, I Has a Blog

Dejá blog, eh?  Same blog, different day?  This blog post reminds me of a dream I don’t remember.  Yes, I’m being ridiculous.

I’ve had a few things on my mind this past week, such as death by aspiration, becoming a pseudo-Mormon for a month, and some interesting blasts from the past.  Let’s take them in order, shall we?

Late last Tuesday night/Wednesday morning, roughly (literally and figuratively) 2:00a.m., I instantly woke up because I could feel acid coming up my throat.  In seconds I was out of bed and coming around to Scott’s side, trying to breath but air wasn’t happening either in or out.  Aspiration 101, ladies and gentlemen.  I had the phone in my hands while Scott was waking up, freaking out because he didn’t know what was happening to me – me, naked (granted, I always sleep naked), holding the phone for him, the other hand doing the universal “I can’t fucking breath and I’m going to die in my bedroom because my stomach acted like a geyser right up my throat” gesture.  I’m not sure if I relaxed my throat or if my body figured out how to breath, but suddenly there was air and a hell of a lot of coughing.  By that time I was in the bathroom, spitting in a sink and coughing and shaking for the next half hour.  I didn’t get a lot of sleep the rest of the night.  When I got up my voice was deeper and all fucked up in a “self induced damage by acid” kind of way.  Too bad it only lasted a day (the deeper and sexier part).  I went to the doc on Wednesday.

Other than the fact I had been eating/drinking everything wrong for me, I had been doing pretty okay in the stomach department.  Since changing jobs, my stress has lessened, but it’s certainly not gone.  The doc said something pretty convincing for me:  if I didn’t give my stomach a chance to heal, they’d go in and scope me out for ulcers in a month.  I had a month to “be good” or I could expect to be on much more serious meds in the future. This casual discussion took place in roughly three minutes.  Three minutes, in which many of my life’s patterns would be changed, cold-turkey, for a month while I practice pseudo-Mormonism – I’m going to Hell for lowering myself to their standards, but I digress.  Yes, for one month I would eschew the Holy Trinity of Divine Pleasures:  coffee, alcohol, and carbonated beverages.  I can proudly say that it’s day 5 and I haven’t killed anyone.  The caffeine withdrawl-based headache was only on day 1.  I’ve lost three pounds and my goal is fifteen, total.

Lastly, blasts from the past.  Reconnections on Facebook (the Borg of the Internets) – and several deletions.  An email from a former co-worker.  Color me shocked, but she and my former team stood up for me big time when a certain manager disparaged me regarding any of the recommendations, workflows and best practices I had left were ever mentioned.  I’m stunned, simply stunned, I say.  It’s a nice feeling that they considered me a good manager – someone who supported them not only as individuals but as team members.

So two questions for ya:  have you ever almost died, and what would/could you give up for a month (thou shalt not invoke Lent, puh-lease).

List: Feast of Fiction

In alphabetical order by author, I give you my list of Fantasy series favorites.  If you’re so inclined, leave a comment about your favorites here, or if you have favorites you’d like to share.  Sharing is good.  Cher is good, too, but I digress.

Prydain Chronicles – Lloyd Alexander

• The Book of Three
• The Black Cauldron
• The Castle of Llyr
• Taran Wanderer
• The High King

I read Alexander’s series in middle school, again in high school, later in my twenties, and recently within the last two years.  The Welsh mythology-based series is a coming-of-age tale for Taran, the Assistant Pig-Farmer, and his battles against the war lord Arawn.

The Mists of Avalon – Marion Zimmer Bradley

Growing up inside the Zion curtain and its patriarchal heirachy and expectations, this book opened windows and doors to explore feminism, sexuality, and spirituality.  In this work by Bradley, she recounts the Arthurian tales told through Morgaine’s perspective.

The Mortal Instruments – Cassandra Clare

• City of Bones
• City of Ashes
• City of Glass

There are times I reread entire pages and chapters – Clare’s writing is compact, expressive, adept, and exhilarating.  The coming-of-age series is about a young woman who discovers she is a Shadowhunter of angelic descent, that her own mother hid her history and inherent gifts from her, and that she was born to destroy demons.

Banned and the Banished – James Clemens

• Wit’ch Fire
• Wit’ch Storm
• Wit’ch War
• Wit’ch Gate
• Wit’ch Star

The first book set the pace – fantastic and memorable characters from page one involved in an epic struggle against evil.  I prayed to all the gods that Clemens wouldn’t die before he finished the series (he’s quite alive).  Clemens weaves horror and thriller elements into a high-fantasy world of unique magic, elves, and swords.  Another memorable is that I “found” Clemens’ email on the internets, wrote to him, and he wrote back!  We’ve been in contact since the late 90’s.

Wraeththu Chronicles – Storm Constantine

• The Enchantments of Flesh and Spirit
• The Bewitchments of Love and Hate
• The Fulfilments of Fate and Desire

Post-apocalyptic Earth of magic and technology.  Constantine explores a rich world of the Wraeththu, a genetically evolved and superior race that challenge the normative concept of gender and sexuality.  What is constant are the over-arching explorations of relationships, power, and spirituality.

Coldfire Trilogy – C. S. Friedman

• Black Sun Rising
• When True Night Falls
• Crown of Shadows

Never have I loved a character (Tarrant) to be so purely evil while so tantalizingly redemptive.  Signed print of the book cover by artist Michael Whalen.

The Sandman graphic novels – Neil Gaiman

• Preludes and Nocturnes
• The Doll’s House
• Dream Country
• Season of Mists
• A Game of You
• Fables and Reflections
• Brief Lives
• World’s End
• The Kindly ones
• The Wake

THE Fantasy Bible, in manageable volumes.  Gaiman’s seven archetypal Endless siblings and their worlds was/is a literary earthquake.  I laughed, I cried.  I was horrified and I was at peace.  There is nothing like this series in the universe.

Fionavar Tapestry – Guy Gavriel Kay

• The Summer Tree
• The Wandering Fire
• The Darkest Road

Epic high fantasy.  This series made me realize the smallness and stark black and white world of Tolkien’s.  Within this Tapestry Kay weaves Arthurian elements and sub-plots.  This series had me weeping from the pure beauty of Kay’s writing.  There is a scene towards the end of “The Darkest Road” that had me sobbing.

A Wrinkle in Time – Madeleine L’Engle

To be a third grade child again and listen to Mrs. Ririe say “tesseract” and imagine space folding and unfolding.

A Wizard of Earthsea – Ursula K. Le Guin

The story of Shadowhawk, which is less about magic and more about fighting and reconciling the shadow within ourselves.

Riddlemaster Trilogy – Patricia K. McKillip

• Riddlemaster of Hed
• Heir of Sea and Fire
• Harpist in the Wind

Morgan, a middle child and simple farmer in a land called Hed, was born with three stars on his forehead.  The reluctant hero eventually finds a harp and sword, each bearing matching stars.  He will travel the world to discover himself.  I’ve reread this series at least six times, each time enjoying it just as much.

His Dark Materials – Philip Pullman

• The Golden Compass
• The Subtle Knife
• The Amber Spyglass

Families we have, families we choose.  Themes of God, power, religion, secrets, worlds within worlds within worlds, but the writing is the true vehicle, and Pullman drives at fierce and relentless pace.  Profane in the sense that the stories tell a universal truth, and organized religion hates when that happens.

Your turn.  Gimme something to blow my mind.

Feast of Fiction

If I haven’t been social networking (Facebook, Twitter, etc), gaming (Second Life, Sims3, Jade Empire (old Xbox game -shut up)), and certainly haven’t been blogging, then what HAVE I been doing?  You didn’t ask, but I’ve been reading.  Reading gobs and gobs.  Devouring lines, pages, chapters, books, savoring words and images and sometimes sitting back and saying “wow” and looking around for a fire extinguisher because it felt like I had a fiery orgasm.  (No, I haven’t been reading erotica, but I have some good suggestions for those inclined.)  Sometimes the story is so powerful that I cry – but I can count on two hands the times that has ever happened.

It feels good to read.  I should do more.  The call of the computer is strong, and being the king of self-distractions, I get lost in an obscene number of unnecessary side-trips.  If the most efficient path is point A to point B, my trips are usually round-the-world loopty-loops.  But with reading?  I’ll stop when my body is tired.  I’ve been known to pick up a book and not stop until I’m done – I’ve had many a put-the-book-down-with-a-sigh moments at 3:00am.  Being able to read fast helps.  I’m sure everyone measures how many pages they can read in an hour.  Some people have penis and/or reading envy – I don’t.  100+ pages an hour, baby (don’t ask the other stat).

What is it about good reading that can stop time, create feelings from words on a page, and connection and care for people that don’t exist?  What is it in those moments that I want to do the same kinds of things in my own writing?  Why do YOU read and what do YOU get out of it?

Part II of this post (I thought I’d be merciful and break up the long post) will follow.  For those inclined to reading, I’ve put together a short list of long-time favorites in terms of fantasy/fiction series.  I threw in a few stand-alones as well.  I’m a book pusher.  Go read.  You know you want to.  Everyone’s doing it.  If you were cool you’d do it, too.  Measure your… speed, too.  Return and report.

Talk Thursday: Two Topics

Over a week ago, it was my turn to post the topic for Talk Thursday.  I was gung-ho about getting back into running, the new shoes have since been worn twice on a run/walk through the hills of Lime Ridge.  In my own private idealism I thought I’d find a metaphor in there somewhere.  Something about how when we run there is nowhere that we run to, that in the trek between point A and point B there is nothing there but ourselves, that the psychology of running was more an exercise in kinetic meditation.  The sweat, the aches, the burning lungs are extraneous.

Thanks Eddie, for the topic – I’m early for yours and I’m late for mine, but that’s my par for this writing course. I have other thoughts in mind beyond running.  Or because of running.  Meditations in motion.

Monday and Tuesday were… whelming.  Not over or under, but life wasn’t normal in the sense that I could let the days be.  Parts still reverberate, like hearing from Leo again.  There was a little note on Facebook, a response, and a smaller note in reply (because as far as emails and notes go, size does matter).  He was in town and wanted to do lunch “or something” with me in SF.  Cute and deliberate, that “or something.”  Funny how a phrase can bring back his face in my hands, his kiss on my lips, his weight on my pelvis as he straddled me – it was almost a decade ago!   His mind and soul were elsewhere and I was his toy for the evening and we played.  Funny how no matter how long ago it was, I still care that he didn’t.

My psychology of running is here:  I don’t run from noon-time indiscretions with horny, straight, married men who think I’m convenient.  I don’t tell him what he meant to me and it’s not because I’m late in his game, but because he would never hear my words or make sense of what I had to say.  I do and I did politely decline the lunch rendevous, using an economy of keystrokes sans sentiment, and I do tell him to enjoy when he’s chowing down on Shanghai dumplings.

Dear readers… what’s your psychology of running?  Anything or anyone specific you run to or from?  Game on.

Heat

We’ve been getting the backyard and pool ready for a few weeks now.  The summer cycle looks like this:  scrub pool tiles, move tables, move chairs, sweep patio, plant flowers, cut back the plant, shock the pool, sweep the pool, clean pool filters, and clean the tables.  Another part of the cycle happens in the front yard – I spend a good 10-15 minutes combing and brushing Midas.  The last part of the cycle happens in the afternoon – we opened up a few of the umbrellas and spent several hours swimming and trying to wear Midas out.  That was our Saturday.

Sunday was a different beast.  We drove the Chrysler 300 down to San Ramon and picked up Mark, then headed more south to Sunol.  We met up with 40+ other members of the gay classic car club and took the noon train from Sunol, through Niles Canyon, to Niles, then back.  An hour and a half trek via train.  The weather was scorching, but we had a great time moving from car to car.  We ended up in the air conditioned caboose on the way back.  The on-board wine tasting was tempting, but I’m not a fan of mixing drinking and driving, even as passenger.  We didn’t stay for the lunch at Broscoe’s.  Right before we got on the freeway, Scott pulled over because the engine didn’t sound quite right.  The fan clutch was a problem.  When he started the car back up, the oil gauge wouldn’t register.  This is the part where we’re looking at each other like “uhm, it’s over a hundred degrees outside” mixed with an “oh shit, we need to call for a tow.”  A few hours later we made it home in time to greet Mark and Rommel and Dean and Mike and spend a few hours swimming,  munching (my guacamole was FANTASTIC), barbequing tequila tri-tip, and drinking mojitos.  Several mojitos.  I sure as hell wasn’t driving anywhere else.

From all the sun this weekend, this day was a bit of a blur.  I probably had heat stroke.  I drank lots of water, ate very little, and when I got home I had a nice nap.  I sat my ass in a chair, opened a book and started reading.  I took a break for a small dinner and the appraiser appointment (refi for a remodel – I’m frankly scared as hell of this market), plus we hung out with our neighbors a little bit.  They’re doing some rehab with their dog in our pool for his hip replacement therapy.  (He’s already made major improvements.  He goes in for the other hip replacement next month.  I will say it’s a bonus that the husband is damn cute.)  I came back inside and read some more.  And I kept reading.  I got sore from sitting in the chair and lay down in bed and read with the fan going and the window open, letting in a nice cool breeze.  And I kept reading.  350 pages tonight.  Another 100 to go.  And I see the sequel in my very near future.

How do YOU keep cool, either literally or figuratively, or both?

Talk Thursday: Found

Funny how a grown man can become adrift in himself.  Lost.  Floating.  Feeling like I lost myself.  I wouldn’t say it was self-absorption, nor selfishness, nor even apathy to everything outside of myself.  It was more a creeping fog of perspective where I could hold on to certain things in the middle of a mental white-out.  Compound the impaired perspective with a passive “let’s ride this out” and there’s a double-dose of Donavan the silent spectator to his own life. Look, he’s going in circles!  How nice for him.  If only the circles meant something.  If only movement meant direction and intention.  If only oracles answered in statements, not more questions.  If only souls had better maps of our emotional landscapes.  If only the miserable bastard wrote it out instead of talking in his own head.  If only he didn’t run with scissors.  If only he shared his sandbox.  If only he weren’t so stubborn.  If only.

Maybe, despite the illusion of being wayward and absent, I found my voice again.  Maybe I found my voice to spite the illusion.  I can be petty that way.  Maybe I chose to be silent to see how long I could stand it.  Maybe I decided to change when my comfortable discomfort became painful.  Heaven knows we as humans don’t change without a motivation, and pain is one of life’s greatest teachers.  There’s a little S&M in all of nature.  God is a dominatrix and we don’t have to like it, but we do have to listen.  I must have liked the spankings because it takes me a while to figure out the bigger message to pay attention.  Maybe a rosy-pink ass isn’t a bad thing once in a while.

What made it through the haze?  Marriages.  Divorces.  Re-locations.  Conferences.  Aging.  A death.  Re-connections.  Introductions.  These are some of the things that kept me stubbornly tethered, though not necessarily grounded.  I don’t feel like I’ve been not-living, but I felt more alive last night, like the haze was fading.  Understand, I’d had vast amounts of painkillers and Valium, one massage, and lots of sleep since Saturday when a migraine started.  But last night at dinner with friends and having two cocktails on an empty stomach was sublime.  My buzz spanned the Bay area, and for much of the evening I could hear myself and certain characters in certain stories that are unwritten.  My mind was not on the play we saw after dinner.  My mind was everywhere and it was on fire.  I could hear myself again, and I wasn’t being a self-critical little bastard.  Bastard yes, but the inner critic was shutting the fuck up.

In San Francisco is the Grace Cathedral.  Outside is a stone and concrete labyrinth set in an open space near the courtyard.  Walking the labyrinth is living a metaphor.  The way we walk describes the way we live our life.  The way we are in the center is the way we examine what we have and what we know.  The way we leave the center and return is our intention or affirmation.  I remember and forget, cyclically, this memorable and powerful place.  How is it that I found what I never lost?  How is it that I keep losing the perspective in the first place?  How is it that the act of repetition (walk, drink, eat, sleep, etc) or doing something familiar can bring us back to ourselves?  One step forward.  Turn left or right.  Keep walking.  More turns.  Go to the center.  Return.  There I was the whole time.  And you were with me.

Let’s swap my exhibitionism for my voyeurism and up the ante a little:  where do YOU go when you lose yourself?

Dusty, Crusty, Rusty, Musty

Evidently, I’m in a rhyming mood.

Virgins are getting more action than this blog these days.  Even though it’s still technically April 1, I’m not going to be more lame than I am and say that I’m deleting the blog.  No, it’s been a slow decay and attrition.  Facebook (and sometimes Second Life) are my online stomping grounds.  Or I get lost in the chasms of own mind and forget to ask for rope (or flashlight).

Since the writing conference a few weeks ago, I’ve written a grand total of… nothing.  Email, technical documentation, and note cards do not count.  Creative writing has been zippo.  For once, I don’t feel guilty.  For once, I’m okay with not writing.  For another, I’ve been dreaming again.

For those folks brave enough to come around – what brings you back since I’m such an unreliable and inconsistent host?  Really – what gives.  Blog makeover?  Do I need to delete Facebook (and Twitter)?  Do I need to slap my muse?  Less Mormonism, more porn?  Feedback, please.  If you don’t feel comfortable commenting, shoot me an email here.

The Masked Blade

When in doubt, make yourself a super hero.  A big gay shout out to Sammy and Aaron for prompting the spontaneous fun.  (Eddie saw the pic and thought it said “the Naked Blade.”)

The Masked Blade

For those who still frequent my infrequent and sporadic postings…  here’s your reader assignment:  do you have a favorite comic book character/superhero, and if so, please share in the comments. I’m curious how many times Wonder Woman comes up (because she was one of my faves).

***

Pardon the really rough subject change but it was a rough day.  A rough couple of days.  Like riding a cactus banister, bare assed.

I’m out of my comfort zone and don’t feel like I’m at my best.  One year as a manager and I’m struggling with the hyper-awareness of being referee for groups or employees that don’t share toys or play nicely in their sandbox together.  I struggle with fairness and objectivity, because I don’t want to treat team-mates like I’ve been treated in the past.  I do my best to speak positively as related to projects and accomplishments and deadlines and I bend over backwards to listen for more of their life story than the day to day grind – work is important, but people are more important than their work.  I’ve given criticisms and negative feedback when it’s warranted.  I struggle with the feeling that I could be doing more.  I feel like I need to channel more of my inner gay superhero:  magic personality, cutting wit, dynamic awareness, matching belt and shoes, and a mask that hides my alter-ego and delicate nature.

**sigh**

Delicate.

Right.  Delicate as a douche commercial.  Or pulling out those splinters from the cactus banister using a pair of pliers, as mentioned above.

This is the part where I’m doing a self-evaluation and wondering how I stack up in the “excels at” column.  Or not.

***

Last but not least, I have not heard back from the writing conference about my submission.  Meanwhile, tic toc, tic toc, tic toc.

Le sigh.